


silver cities rise

by vlieger



Series: old footie fic rewrites [3]
Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-27
Updated: 2013-03-27
Packaged: 2017-12-06 15:22:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/737177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vlieger/pseuds/vlieger





	silver cities rise

Kaká in Istanbul mirrors the disbelief, the _how, how_ , Sheva feels curling, clenching in his gut but can't bring himself-- doesn't know how-- to show in anything that isn't sour and hardened, the stinging purse of his cracked lips, dry skin peeled off in strips and open, raw, in the cold air. It feels a lot like the ache of cut knuckles from too many punches, like blood gathering to form fist-shaped bruises. 

His hands now are smooth and uncalloused though, out of practice; instead his knees ache, under the grass stains and mud, and there's a spot low down on his abdomen he knows will linger, a shallow gash in the midst of purpling skin.

It's eerily bright, inside the stadium, white and washed-out in the circle of flashing cameras, enough that Sheva can glance over and see the freckles dusted across the tops of Kaká's cheeks, the bridge of his nose, and the dark uneven spots of stubble, like some scattered reflection of the imperfect, starry Istanbul sky. The dent of his lower lip is pink, wet, his eyes over-bright, and in the curve of soft flesh inside his elbow Sheva can see the curve of the ball: too short, too centered, and stopped, stopped.

"Sheva," Kaká whispers.

Sheva looks up at him. He's been staring too long, still and silent. Kaká looks away.

It's cruel, this, standing here in the stadium with its ocean-like massed crowd, its rippling cheers, and yet there is silence, beneath it all, like the nuclear silence beneath the sound of birds and trundling cars and the scrape of a football against loose gravel, and Sheva recognises the impending chaos, not for the winners, and this time he is ready, poised with his eyes on the cling of Kaká's shirt to the ridges of his spine.

Later, they fuck, drunk on wine and what ifs, staining their lips and fingertips, red like their shirts crumpled in the corner, and they are Rossoneri, as Sheva fucks into Kaká with his teeth bared, they are Rossoneri, as Kaká bows his head and takes it, the bones in his back shifting and coalescing. They are Rossoneri, still, in this strange, beautiful city, as Sheva sweats and aches and comes, hitting home like he couldn't on the pitch; some lesser, taunting not-victory, and Kaká says, "Si, si, Dio, si."

Sheva feels the muscles coiling in his wrists, pressing marks into Kaká's hips, hard and then harder, whispering, over Kaká's muted whimpers, "So, so, mi spiace, mi spiace."

Kaká says again, like he hasn't heard, coming, groaning, "Si," and Sheva thinks, fractured, vicious: No.

They are Rossoneri, drunk and beaten, and Kaká bends beneath him, but does not break.


End file.
